


That Woman

by therisingharvestmoon



Category: Young Dracula
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2018-04-29 15:58:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5133547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therisingharvestmoon/pseuds/therisingharvestmoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Count tries to figure out which that infernal woman is - a suitable spouse, lunch, or perhaps even... a lover? Count Dracula/Elisabeth Branagh AU. Rated for language and other adult themes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

The dashing and dark Count Dracula jolted awake and lurched forward, his shining white forehead smacking into the heavy wooden lid of his coffin. He made a noise like a kitten growling – it had been a very long time since he'd breathed, so a gasp remained impracticable. The Count hissed and opened the lid, shirking away from the dim, distant light of the castle. His feathery, black hair tickled his chin as he leaned forward, wrapping the red and black satin garment around his pale, thin frame.

Knock knock knock. There it was again – what was it? Someone at the castle door? Who was at the castle door? He despised being disorientated; it was so unnatural to be alert and aware this late in the morning. Then, a voice.

'Mr Count?'

He screwed his eyes up and lay back down. That was a mistake – his middle of the day depth perception was slightly off, and he cracked the back of his skull on the edge of the wooden box. Damn that Branagh woman! She was more persistent than a Persian peasant mob! First she was there, having the nerve to tell him his own children needed to attend school with the cattle, then showing up at his castle any time of the day, getting him up from his coffin to make idle chit chat, and all the while he would envision her entrails splattered violently up the grimy stone walls, or else a wooden stake punching through his withered veins, through the brittle bone to his heart. At least it would put him out of his misery.

'Mr Count? Are you home? I'll let myself in, shall I?' she called from the courtyard. It was funny, how her voice seemed to carry like nothing else through the stone walls and his aching head.

He sighed, thinking violent thoughts, and hoisted himself out of his sleeping place, wrapping his dressing robes around him and barely making it into the dining room (how ironic) before she burst in, almost stumbling over her own skirts and beads and joy.

'Elizabeth!' He cried, once again feigning delight. 'How lovely of you to just…. Drop by, like this. So… unexpectedly. 'He bared his teeth in what these humans called a friendly smile, hoping she might see his fangs. Instead, she beamed back at him from in the middle of that blonde, fluffy halo of hair.

'Mr Count, I just wanted to thank you again, for allowing Vlad to mingle with our Robin. I hear they're both doing so well at school. Vlad is such a good influence on our boy; he's kind, considerate and very intelligent. Always does his work on time.' She did not notice that the Count's jaw had dropped in horror. 'Though I do worry about Robin… I know we decided not to send him to happy camp, but he's always so gloomy… So depressed!'

'Oh, I think Robin is a very… enthusiastic child!' He cooed, making her smile. 'He's got his priorities sorted out.' Something he would definitely have to talk to Vlad about when he got home from school. Kindness and fun and games and influence with the food? It was going to be an all night stake out tonight for little Vladdie. None of that night time sleeping for him. Helping Renfield gut the casserole mice might just make him reconsider his good cheer the next day at school. Mmm, gutting. That's right, concentrate on the gore. Block out this annoying woman's babble.

He tried to glaze his gaze over, but the way her blonde eyebrows furrowed her milky skin was just so… distressing. He wondered just how upset she'd be if he tore out her throat and bled and quartered her. 'I just don't know what to do. All these Gothic obsessions and dark drawings and… Oh!'

Next thing he knew, she was sobbing into his shoulder. So close, he could feel the skin of her neck on his exposed shoulder. Next time, he'd have to wear something more to his coffin. She clung onto his shoulder desperately, and he could actually feel her pulse on his own, dead skin. 'M-m-mister Count, h-h-h-how did you raise Vlad to be such a good boy? Robin isn't my little Robin anymore!'

Barely paying attention to her mortal concerns, he lifted a hand to her neck on impulse. Oh yes, it was so warm and so human. He breathed in the scent of the skin behind her neck – the mildness of shampoo and talcum powder filled his nose, yet it was not unpleasant. Suddenly images flashed in his mind – he tore at her skin and swallowed her blood and bruised her face and the Mrs Branagh in his mind's eye simply let him do it. He looked down at the real Elisabeth – for she was quite shorter than he- and actually found that hand patting her neck comfortingly.

'It's all right, Elizabeth. In my opinion, Robin is an excellent boy.' His deep, soothing voice was so different to the violent lustful bile rising in his throat.

'Really?' She sobbed pathetically. Such an easy target. So open with her emotions and so easy to believe in good. 'I mean I love Robin,' she didn't notice him cringe at the word, 'but he's become so distant and it's like… I understand his fascination with vampires and werewolves and ghouls, but why does it have to consume him so much? Its like he doesn't appreciate how I've raised him, what he's been given. He's been so lucky and it's like he just doesn't care at all.'

Though his lips were dangerously close to her neck and his hand tightening his grip around her shoulder, he stopped and actually listened to her words. 'I… know how you feel. I have certain… dispositions myself, Elizabeth, and Vlad is good and kind, as you say, but he doesn't appreciate his... his cultural heritage.'

She leaned back, looking at his face with an open look of shock. Her crystal eyes were wide and her mouth was a little 'o'. Now he grinned at how foolish she looked, but the infernal creature took this as encouragement. 'Oh Mr Count. It's so good to have someone to talk to. Oh yes… I'd forgotten how hard it must be for you, coming from another country. I must say, your English is remarkable. Perhaps Vlad and Robin might learn more from each other than I first thought. Than we first thought. Like how to appreciate their family, for one.'

He continued smiling, staring down at her with his black, empty, seductive eyes. 'I don't think so. I think that's something one learns on one's own.' His interest in the conversation had made him lose his appetite, for now. The danger was gone, but she still stood close to him, in the aura of his understanding. And truthfully, some of it was. But a good large percentage was still pure bloodlust. And then, unexpectedly, something else.

He remembered when she'd worn that lovely dress, when he hoped she would be his bride. His infatuation and frustration with Elisabeth constantly fluctuated between annoyances, that one time a wish for her to fill Magda's place, but now it was different. Once, Elizabeth Branagh would have been lunch. When he was touching her, he felt her blood, but it was like eating only for the sake of doing so. There would be no passion in the murder if circumstance had allowed him to kill Elizabeth this morning. She was human, and he could easily drain her (particularly when she babbled on like she was now), but he would prefer not to. There was other worthless stock that wandered onto the grounds all too often. Besides, he imagined Vladdie would be rather upset if he killed his playmate's mother. And here she was, looking up at him because she thought the way he dressed was some sort of grown up version of his son's obsession. Starring at him because he says he understands, which he does. And at that moment he realises she's here, and not talking it over with Mr Branagh, whatever his name was.

'… and so I can't really pinpoint the moment when he started acting differently, but he just did. And I'm just glad to talk to someone outside the family that knows that Robin's a good boy.'

'It was my pleasure, Mrs Branagh. Your faith and opinion of my offspring is quite uplifting.'

She smiled again, so sunshiny it was a wonder that it didn't burn him. 'You have such an unusual way with words. It's a comfort, Mr Count.'

'It is,' he agreed without thinking. It was comfortable, being around her, being attracted to more than her blood or position as wife, and her looking so little like Magda. Revolting, sickening and fucking gorgeous Magda.

'How about I make us some tea?' Though he had no idea how, he imagined it would comfort her somewhat. And honestly he didn't want her to leave yet in such haste. Back to Grayson or Greg or whatever he was called, and the rest of her sunshiny offspring. Well, all bar one.

'That would be lovely.'

'…Lovely.' He echoed so she wouldn't hear. His headache was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Dinner had been an interesting affair. The twins had finally been able to agree on something - the young Ingrid was an impossible catch. Oh, girls when they're young. Chloe was different. As usual, she picked at her pesto chicken pasta with a book in front of her face, but at least she paid some attention to the emotional dynamic of the family when Graham came home, exhausted. And Robin – tonight even he had decided he'd wanted to sit down and endure the football game instead of reading Dracula or Anne Rice again. Elizabeth peeked into the dark living room, the only light the flickering from the television. Robin was being jostled by his brothers and father on the couch each time their team scored. Though she knew Robin couldn't care less, he looked as if he was happy to be spending some time with them. Though Chloe was jotting down corrections on her homework, she sat on a bean bag close to the men.

Elizabeth sighed, snapping off her rubber gloves and setting them down on the bench. She'd scrubbed everything the dishwasher wouldn't take care of, fed and watered her family, listened to their stories of the day, and made sure each of them had enough dessert to last them through the match and through their homework. But what would she do now? Autumn was slowly sinking into winter, so she could happily sit and knit gloves or scarves or beanies for the kids and Graham, maybe even extend the wool for Ingrid and Vlad, they were such lovely children really. But standing in the doorway between the living room and kitchen, Elizabeth found the lone arm chair in the corner to be very depressing looking. The rest of them were so content looking that she felt entering the room would put the dynamic out of balance. They would be okay. She knew that. They didn't have any major problems, and as they were proving right at that moment, they didn't always need her to pull them together.

So now what?

Her chat with Mr Count today proved most enlightening. Over tea, which had a certain Transylvanian touch to it that she couldn't place, he had explained his struggles with his own children. She had to admit, his admiration for his children's less amiable qualities was strange, but perhaps pride and arrogance got crossed over in his culture. Elisabeth believed everything Mr Count said when it came to the differences both their children faced – Vlad and Robin almost seemed to belong in the opposite family. He had chuckled at her suggestion, claiming that he was certain that was biologically impossible, that he'd made sure of it… Then she couldn't remember much after that.

Elizabeth looked up then, and knew she had to do something for herself. As a girl about Chloe's age, she would walk outside in the dusk and Autumn moonlight – a time of the day she believed to be hers. Well, if she couldn't have anything else, why not have that?

Putting her caramel, furry-collared jacket on, Elizabeth headed toward the front door. 'I'll be back in a while. Just going to get some milk… Lovely evening for a walk.'

None of the Branagh's noticed her hair whip around her face as she stepped out into the night, encased in their activities as they were.

The quite lane at the top of the hill was on both sides surrounded by hedges and fields and trees turning into citrus and sunset. In the moonlight, they were even more beautiful. It was quite cold out, and Elizabeth regretted not putting some warmer clothes on at least. Puffing from her trek to the top of the hill, Elisabeth slowly panned around, observing the night time scenery. From this hill just up from their house, she discovered, the Count's castle was silhouetted in the moonlight, even more entrancing than her visits in the day. She wondered what they did up there all by themselves. Always with that family in mind, Elizabeth hoped that the occasional ball wasn't the only thing that filled the beautiful space they made their home. Elizabeth imagined they would be so lonely without a mother, and vaguely remembered a few months ago when the Count had expressed his wish for Magda to be replaced. The poor man, though in Elizabeth's opinion, a replica of Magda would not help Ingrid's attitude problem, or Vlad's loneliness.

Coming to the end of the road, there continued a muddy track into someone's sheep paddock which extended behind the houses here and another, narrower lane, winding around the cropping of forest that bordered the Counts' property. It couldn't hurt, could it? The looming castle gave her the feeling that she was in an old horror movie like she used to enjoy when she was a girl. The lane was not wide enough for a car, but had definitely been crafted for people to walk through. She wondered where it came out the other side. It was nice, to have an adventure all on her own.

The wind picked up as Elizabeth wandered down the shadowy, moonlit lane alone. She heard a whoosh behind her and felt a small jolt of fear. That was ridiculous; there would be no one out here at this time of night. Part of her wanted to believe that was so it could still be her adventure, and part of her was scared that she had come out here foolishly on her own, and if there was someone around who shouldn't be, who might do her harm…

'Elizabeth? What an unexpected surprise!'

She jumped and almost screamed – almost, except she recognised the voice. The slow, melodious and somewhat calming voice of Mr Count.

Elizabeth whirled around. He stood near the closest tree, dressed in his more flamboyant leather pants, ruffled wine coloured shirt and boot-length jacket as opposed to cape. He looked so intimidating and if there was anyone around, she doubted they'd even come close with just one look. He was staring at her, sauntering forward invitingly. She had been scared?

'Oh, Mr Count.' She blubbered. 'I just thought I'd give my legs a work and have some time on my own. All my chores were done tonight, for once, and – '

As she spoke, Elizabeth noticed Mr Count had the same look on his face as he did this morning when she'd popped in… and in fact every time she'd seen him. Though he wore a bemused smile, his eyes held her gaze strongly, and a vein in his forehead appeared to be twitching. It was such a strange mix of emotion, she wondered if he possibly suffered from migraines? That might be why he looked so terrible when she came to visit. The poor dear.

'Mrs Branagh,' he stopped her, and she meekly folded her hands, wondering if she'd aggravated his headache. 'You appear to be shivering. Here –' he appeared at her side in less than a blink of an eye with his coat opened, stepping around her before she could agree or protest.

'Thank you.' She smiled up at him, quite close to his face. He noticed how shiny and open and un-Magda-like her eyes were at this proximity. And his arm was pressed gently around the opposite side of her neck, the warm blood pulsing. At least in this weather she wouldn't notice how cold his skin was.

'Beautiful … Night for a walk out, isn't it though?' He said quickly. She huddled closer to him as another gust of wind blew across the path. This was so easy! All she had to do was pick up a rock and tear her own jugular open for him. Then again, it would be quite a shame to ruin that long and slender neck.

'It is. I love being alone out here like this… Just to have some time on my own.' She smiled meekly once again.

The Count scoffed melodramatically. 'What? No trouble with the family I hope? Nothing wrong with Gregory?'

'Oh, no, Graham's fine,' she corrected him placidly. 'It's just… well what you said today… I thought I needed to do something for myself.'

'Indeed,' he crooned, becoming bored again. Time to pick up the pace. They stopped at the little junction in front of the Branagh house and the back lane. He turned her toward him with one powerful arm, gently placing his pale hand between her shoulder blades. It wasn't a very thick coat at all. He stared into her slightly puzzled eyes and held her in the trance. 'Now, Mrs Elizabeth Branagh, I sense that you'd like to meet again?'

'Meet again…'

'Under less… dangerous circumstances?' He could bite and puncture her skin so easily at this moment.

'Yes.'

'Very good, Elizabeth. One more thing, you sad, compassionate little human being. You're husband is looking at us through the kitchen window. You'll forget this when you return to your spawn, but right now you're practically overflowing with wanted to help the poor, out of sorts widower that lives in the castle up the hill, who just happens to be your type of interesting. Break the monotony, and give me a kiss. Right here on the cold, dead cheek.'

She moved as though in a dream, planting a warm, wet smooch on the left side of his face, right where Mr Branagh wouldn't miss it. The Count took the opportunity to look down at her seductively, sniff her hair and then gaze back up to the now infuriated looking Mr Branagh, giving him a little wave and imagining how much it was going to bother him when she completely forgot what happened, acting so innocent and homely.

Elizabeth stepped back, her eyes unglazed and she stared up at Mr Count in genuine happiness. 'Thank you for walking me home, Mr Count.' She beamed.

He smiled knowingly. 'The pleasure was all mine.'

She disagreed with this common statement, but couldn't think why.

Graham held his apple pie over the sink staring up at the pale and handsome Mr Count watching his wife walk back down the garden path. He stared, wondering why she'd gone out. What were they doing? Why had she kissed him? Before he could look back at the smug bastard, he was gone. That was so strange; he almost forgot he was upset and jealous. Elizabeth breezed in, kissing him on the same side of the cheek as though nothing had been witnessed.

'Chilly out there, love.' She rubbed her hands together. Mr Branagh could not fathom it, not one bit. When he started softly snoring that night, Elizabeth kept her lamp on to read the first chapter of one of Robin's book's she'd borrowed. That was nice. She didn't know why she felt like reading Interview with the Vampire, but it was a nice feeling to think that maybe she and her son had something more in common than she'd first thought.

But unbeknownst to Elizabeth, Robin Branagh hadn't missed Count Dracula's little stunt on the hill. He saw the sad and suspicious look on his father's face when he'd shuffled off to bed, and knew that he'd have to talk to Vlad. He loved both his parents, and this was a little reminder that it was his parents that he loved, more than the idea of vampires, and especially more than the real vampires themselves.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Vlad knew that Mrs Branagh's visits to the castle and his father's occasional expedition to the Branagh house was helpful for him when it came to attending school, and any interaction the Count had with the 'peasants'. Unfortunately, his aptitude for hunting stretched a little further than post men. His constant flirting with anything female – especially Robin's mum – was just another thing Vlad had to keep under control.

'It's a sticky situation… I mean it's good that he likes your mum, right?' Vlad said, stroking Zoltan's head thoughtfully. Robin stared gloomily at Vlad's gloomy ceiling. 'I mean, can you imagine if I told him I thought he'd gotten soft with the peasants… I wouldn't want him to do anything to your mum to prove a point.'

Robin pouted grumpily. 'Yeah, but its worse that mum fancies him so much. I mean, mum is meant to be with dad, not your dad. I mean, that's just… It's just wrong. Poor dad! You should have seen the look on his face… and it's definitely the hypnotism. She didn't even remember doing it. She borrowed one of my books last night. My vampire books, Vlad. She gave it back to me this morning and said she found it in her room. Maybe the Count is making her like him back? Or maybe he's making her forget every time she sees him or thinks of him… Like that, uh…'

Vlad frowned. Once again his famous father was making things bad for him and everyone else.

'I suppose I could cool the vampire stuff for a while, you know - I think having mum as your dad's good samaritan is putting everyone at risk.'

'That's so unselfish, so kind - see, you're doing it already.'

'Ha ha,' Robin quipped, but he was smiling too. 'But you aren't going to start drinking blood to make your dad happy, are you?'

Vlad blanched. 'Ugh, no! I mean your mum is your mum, but blood... ' He sighed. 'You know, if dad things he's God's gift to women, he could make your mum think that he is.'

Robin scoffed.

'You've seen her. She can wear anyone down with her friendliness! Even the Count! I wouldn't be surprised if she thought your dad was some poor, misunderstood lamb, but he's not! He could kill her!'

There was a brief silence. Vlad hung his head. Robin bit his lip.

'It's al lright Robin. Really. He could. Don't think I'm more worried about safety than I am about someone having the hots for someone they shouldn't...'

The both smiled understandingly.

'I think this is SICK – imagine, a breather! And this one's parent, no less.'

They jumped as Ingrid swept past, and decided that they'd better end the conversation there, lest Count Dracula overhear their plans to foil his flirtations as easily.

'Oh that's right, just scurry away like you always do, you little... Little boy.'

Ingrid rolled her eyes and watched Vlad and Robin practically leap upstairs to get away from her. Up to what was rightfully her room. Good. Good riddance. That way she could read her vampire magazines in peace, and didn't have to be disturbed by precious Vladimir, or that creepy, insane breather. Or her father, who was probably out slaughtering a sheep or something else similarly fluffy and totally ridiculous. Fine, good. That was good, she could be alone. That didn't mean she was lonely, because she was alone. She enjoyed her own company, the tranqulity of solitude. Or at least... she filled the space with magazines and bitchiness and bossing people about. Yes, that did very nicely.

She'd overhead what the brats were talking about, and deep down, in a place where all other feelings had tried to be stifled, she agreed with Vlad. It would be nice to have someone else around. Things only went from terrible to horrific when her own mother was around, and though she didn't acknowledge it consciously, some small, selfish but not evil part of her wanted the terribly chipper breather Mrs Branagh to loom about the castle a bit more. As her dad had first commented when they'd first moved to this dump (which she secretly felt was home), these people were impossibly delightful and friendly. Their kindness was almost addictive...

Ingrid tossed her reading material aside violently. Stupid mortals. Why did they have to go ahead and been so kind? Ingrid would have loved to have taken the necklace the Branaghs had given her and worn it with such pride, but once again, her stupid father who she only wanted to impress had gone and ruined it. Though she'd never till the stupid little swamp rat, she knew how Vlad felt. The kid had his moments - finally realising what it was like to be ignored by their father when once again he went off on another scheme.

This time, Ingrid flipped the table over and it shattered into shards of wood. She was glad no one was around - properly glad this time. She was crying - of course she was.

The candle she had upended was now snuffed out by a draft of wind, and she was left in the total darkness.

Why couldn't he love her? She was cruel like a vampire so her dad would be happy, but he still managed to relate this to one of Madga's seemingly endless character flaws. And then when the Branagh's had come along, with their impossibly infectious good will, ready to accept all of them for whoever or whatever they were, she'd been forced to scare them away. Now, Mrs Branagh was quite brusque with Ingrid when she visited the castle... which was quite often, much to the Count's annoyance and bemusement. Maybe Vlad had a point, but she actually could not care less about that. She just wanted to make sure the Branagh's weren't totally driven away forever.

She blinked away the last few tears - she wasn't totally accustomed to the darkness, and she didn't want Count Dracula sneaking up on her in a state.

She was Ingrid Dracula - she didn't have states!

Ingrid whimpered in the face of her own lies. Apparently, the placebo effect of telling herself she was tough was beginning to wear off. She imagined her selfish father wouldn't even notice if she spent time with Elisabeth too. She wanted to embrace the lovingness of a normal family as much as Vlad did. Because she was older and Vlad was very much idealisitc about finding a cure for vampirism, she knew it was impossible. Still, maybe it would be okay to compliment Mrs Branagh on the fruitcake she brought over, or how she wore her hair, and try to make amends for her display at the Hunt Ball. It was the hardest thing to do, drive the Branagh's away like that. But now... maybe things would change. Maybe if Mrs Branagh was nice to her, her dad would start acknowledging her, at least.

Being cruel had never felt worse. But it seemed they still didn't want to stay away. If she or any of them were horrible like that to them again, to scare them again or hurt them as much as she did... well... There would be no more chances. Sniffing and stamping up to her bedroom, Ingrid resolved to tolerate the Branaghs. The offer of unconditional love was worth the danger. She saw this as normal for a vampire, and somewhat cruel. But the desire she acted on was the same as any other, lonely child.

Ingrid was torn from her thoughts by nearly running into Vlad.

'What are you doing?' She snapped.

'Getting some juice for Robin and I, if that's alright wi- Ingrid... Have you been crying?' He stared at her with wide, concerned eyes, which was for some reason infuriating.

'Shutup. No. I said shutup.'

'Okay, I just wondered...' Then he smiled knowingly. 'You know... Your eyes are blue, like dads.'

She frowned, confused. 'So?'

'Well, I think you might have more in common than you think... maybe not more than Dad thinks,' he added, honestly.

Ingrid blinked. 'Right. I'm going now.'

'Okay.'

'Goodnight, Vlad.' She stomped away.

He smiled. 'Goodnight.'

\--

Graham Branagh was from a decade of rock and roll… real rock and roll. He didn't miss the Count's subtle reference to 'cherry pie', or Elizabeth's willingness to give it to him, as it were. He knew the song! He was a Warrant fan in the day! Getting into his overalls in a grouchy sort of stumble, Graham tried not to overthink what had happened. Juggling his work diary, a bowl of muesli and an almighty glare toward the Count's house, he tried to figure out the cheek smooch as an isolated incident.

But then there was the Valentine's Day card, where she'd totally denied fancying the Ozzy Osborne wannabe. He'd become quite flustered when she'd mentioned the kids – like she'd admit her attraction to the other man in front of them. That was pretty stupid of him. But still.

As usual, it was like she didn't even know she was doing it, but then there she was, half a foot away from the Gothic, leather clad 'Mr Count', flirting openly with him. It was a lot easier to believe that Elizabeth was innocent in all of this. The Count was quite manipulative, and she simply didn't have a clue what he was talking about when he tried to bring it up. Well, even if she did know that she was doing it, it was mostly his fault. She'd come to her senses on her own. He resolved that he wouldn't worry too much. But he did.

'No one else... snuggles with my wife,' he whispered bravely, then became quite red after voicing the rash thought. Hmph. He was a good, honest worker. She'd see. He'd see. They'd all see.

'Dad, did you say something?'

Mr Branagh jumped about a foot in the air, dropping the keys and his other meagre possession.

'Oh, Chloe, sweetheart, what - I didn't see you there. What are you doing up this early in the morning?'

His bright, blonde-haired daughter shuffled toward the fridge to get herself a glass of milk. 'For someone my age, eight hours sleep is the nightly requirement, Dad.'

He nodded placidly, and looked at Chloe's bunny pajamas. She sounded like a university professor, but he was still his little girl.

'Kiss goodbye?' She asked.

This brightened his day from then on, and he was able to think of what he'd seen as a mere plantonic display of affection from Elizabeth, who had all the bleeding hearts of the world attatched to her woolly sleeves.

Still, how could someone be so full of their own cheekbones? It was certainly a mystery.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Elizabeth Branagh was, as they say, a cool drink of water. Yes, the human metaphor fitted her perfectly – though the Count had to admit, for him he'd rather her be a warm drink of blood. Blood. The thought of blood and Mrs Branagh at the same time sent his salivary glands into overdrive. He opened his eyes and almost sat up into the coffin lid again. This time, there was no knock at the door, just the strange feeling he always got at sunset after a daydream. He'd been dreaming of Magda, how she'd tear the throats out of livestock and peasants, covered in their blood; then she'd come to him, still dripping from the fangs beneath her gorgeous full, red lips and she would… Oh she'd…

Why did he think of Elizabeth after a dream about Magda? Not just a dream, but a re-enactment. It seemed that proper, peasant blood was not the only thing he was lacking.

He opened his coffin lid to the world. The burnt orange tints of the sun were just fading from the sky, too distant to do him any harm. The moonrise was beautiful, and Count Dracula was glad he was awake to see it, though he wished there was someone to watch it with. Still feeling rather miffed about his Magda dream, the Count pushed himself up onto his elbows, the cool night air gliding through the window and greeting his face like an old friend. Elisabeth reminded him of the moon – pale, plain but glowing – naturally, unremarkably beautiful. The dream had been irritating. Firstly, Magda was doing… those… things with that dog Patrick, not him. She was never going to stay long term- both he and the offspring knew that. Secondly, and probably most the most concerning, was that he wished it had have been Elizabeth. That kiss last night should have been meant for his lips, not his cheek. Practically perfect and just off the mark, like his dream.

From upstairs, there was a bang, a scream and a whine. He glared upward, knowing the children had arrived home from their so-called school. Rolling his eyes, he lifted his newspaper from his coffin-side table. They would have to come to him if they wanted anything. Like dinner, or affection.

The Count looked down to discover he hadn't picked up Transylvanian Times from the breathing room, but Vlad's copy of The Stokely Enabler.

'What a ridiculous name for a newspaper,' he scoffed, taking a peek inside. He hadn't gone soft, letting Vlad and the other one go to school or on play dates with the breathers. His consumption of livestock rather than people and friendly fraternisation with the neighbours was merely a guise to fool the peasants, then leap on them and drain their fats and fluids when they least suspected it. The right time just hadn't come along, that was all.

He opened the newspaper, with the first page detailing the supposedly noble adventures of… the Branagh Boys?

The Count squinted and lifted the paper closer. Apparently, Gray-Ham, the dunderheads and Vladdie's little friend were going camping in an attempt to save some sort of forest, blah blah blah. His eyes widened slightly. That meant all he had to deal with was the youngest, female brat and he would be able to see Elisabeth. Perfect. Oh yes, it was time for a night trip, all right. And it wasn't as though he was going down there to be friendly… they were not friends. He and Mrs Branagh were merely acquaintances whose children shared some sort of abnormal fondness. He would sip tea out of the chipped lime mugs that matched that horrible sofa and 'chat' with her, as the kids called it, to simply strengthen his undercover position in the village. He just hadn't had the chance to slaughter any other peasants yet.

Ten minutes later, Vlad and Ingrid actually stopped their squabbling to stare up at their father, the eccentric Prince of Darkness.

'Dad,' Ingrid crooned scathingly. 'What on earth are you wearing?'

His eyes narrowed. 'My finest leathers, brat. I'm going for a little… walk.'

Vladimir looked similarly horrified. He probably had blood on his face, or forgot to zip up. The children stared, confused, as he checked his crotch to find nothing.

'Dad… I hope you aren't planning on having the same walk that you did the other night, because people noticed, and some of them weren't happy.'

His eyes flashed menacingly and he appeared at Vlad's end of the table in the blink of an eye, startling the boy.

'Some of them? Meaning… not all, Vlad?'

The boy gulped. Did this mean Elizabeth enjoyed their little unexpected encounter? He could just imagine her walking in feeling unexpectedly sleepy, yet senses strangely aroused. Did she and her husband 'make love' as was the euphemism in this peasant village? He laughed maliciously, and gave his son's hair a ruffle.

'Don't wait up.'

Elizabeth was startled to hear the knock at the door when she was walking directly in front of it. Frowning she approached the curtain and peered out the distorted glass. Though the figure appeared as mostly black splodges, there was no mistaking who it was. She unlocked the door and opened it with a smile.

'Mr Count! This is an unexpected surprise,' she greeted him, though the tone her voice certainly did not drip with annoyance or disappointment.

She stared up at his tall frame, into the pale face and eyes that were charcoal in the night instead of the regular blue. Her mouth was parted slightly as she surveyed his countenance – full clad in tight, black leather, a long jacket, and his hair dark around his face. In contrast, she was wearing quite a summery dress, one that she put on for nights by herself. Even if it was cold, she turned the heating up to accommodate. But at the moment, the temperature in the room seemed to have dropped several degrees.

'Come in, come in,' she opened the door wider. 'I'm sorry I'm not more… dressed. I wasn't expecting any company.'

He met her in the hallway, once again staring into her eyes. 'I'm not bothered, Elizabeth… Not by the way you dress, at least. You're home alone?'

'Chloe's at a friends.' She didn't mention the others. Good.

Elizabeth smiled as she led him in to the lime green sofas, unperturbed as always by his comments. That was what he liked the most about Elisabeth, he reckoned. Many a comment such as that would pass between them, and yet she was still dim to his intentions – whatever they were, anyway. She was a breather; she could give him blood… And yet he wanted her to give him something else. Something more. She was so complacent – acting as his wife, cooking, cleaning… But that was not enough for some reason. Still electrified from his dream, the Count moved silently behind her as she made her way into the kitchen. Yes, he wanted what he had with Magda previously. He wanted that awful, awful dress gone. He wanted-

'Tea, Mr Count?'

He glared at her in annoyance, but the feeling soon dissipated as she turned around. He was quite close.

'Oh. I didn't see you there. You're a quiet one, Mr Count; I didn't actually hear you walk up the path…' Her silky eyebrows rose.

That was the idea. 'Yes, well, you have to be quite stealthy in my line of work.' He tapped his nose knowingly, and spoke before she could ask any further questions about his employment. 'No, thankyou, no tea tonight.' She was ten times brighter than her entire family. Would she notice if he dropped a hint now; alone, in his finest wears, and looking pale, dark and handsome? 'I did not come for such… idle pleasantries.' He licked his lips, hoping to convey something to her.

She stared at him (as she always did when he said something… exotic) and then frowned. If he had a working heart, it would have starting beating rapidly. Was she about to reject him? He – Count Dracula? Before the inferno of rage could form itself into words, she spoke.

'Robin and Vlad haven't been misbehaving, have they?'

He could have sharpened one of her rolling pins and fell on it just then. He closed his eyes briefly, imagining her arteries being ripped from her neck and sucked up like spaghetti. He was trying so very hard not to make Elizabeth Branagh dinner, but her barrier of dim kindness was make him feel so murderous and… affectionate?

'No, they are fine.' He looked directly into her eyes, almost feeling her pulse in the air, and hoped his fangs weren't lowering as he spoke. 'I've come for you, Elizabeth.'

Wasn't the way he was breathing enough? His eyes were black, his hair was perfect, his skin pale and smooth. His fucking cheekbones… existed! He wasn't sure whether he wanted his bloodlust or desire for her to be more apparent, and he was sure if he hadn't been wearing the restricting leather, there would be a far more obvious sign tipping the scale in the way of the latter. He glided forward, and she didn't step back. There was no 'me?' and no 'what do you mean?' and no 'Come for me for what, Mr Count' and no confused eyebrows and certainly no blinking. In fact, the lack of response was making him a little nervous, but he still held her gaze.

'Oh.'

That was it? What was that? What did it mean?

The Count used all his restraint not to send to Branagh furniture flying across the room or setting the kitchen curtains ablaze. He took another step forward, and still she didn't move. 'Did you hear what I said?'

'Oh, I did, Mr Count.' Her voice was unwaveringly cheerful still, but he noticed her smile had gone. Oh no. Was she about to light the torches and grab the pitchforks, or tell him to leave and never speak of this again? She did neither; instead, Elizabeth turned toward the window. He couldn't see her face in the reflection. Now he couldn't stare into her eyes. Couldn't see them and make her forget he was a vampire, if that's what she'd figured out. He hoped it was the other option. Her silence was more infuriating than her babble, but he decided to match her kind tone instead.

'And did you know what I meant, Elizabeth Branagh, when I said that?' Perhaps he would give her skin a little nip? Trail the blood from her ear up to her lips, and then kiss them? He was only inches away from the back of her neck. He could bite it or kiss it – it was entirely up to her now.

She turned her head slightly, her face only inches away from his now. The eyes were still dark, but she was more hypnotised by the beauty of his face than his vampiric powers. He almost gasped as she stepped backward, closing the space between them, pressing herself into him – oh candlesticks, she was literally everywhere. That was good enough for Count Dracula. He growled almost playfully and wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her backward and pressing his cheek into hers. He ran his pale, spidery hand over her barely-covered breasts. She turned to face him, the mask of dim indifference gone. She looked… hungry.

Damn this pointless, flower-covered garment! He put his arms around her and stepped forward, his groin meeting hers in a parody of what would be a kiss. She moaned, almost silently, and put her head back to expose her neck to his lips. This startled him - were they going to fuck or did she have a death wish? It was too much - he had to... to do something.

His hair tickled her neck as he dipped forward, kissing her collar bone, then up he neck - almost suckling her skin. He looked up. She was still smiling. That was good.

'Mmm, Elizabeth,' he muttered mildly, finally kissing her on the lips twice in quick succession, then sliding his tongue along the back of her teeth. She returned the gesture, and squeezed her legs around his waist.

Then her entire body slackened. 'Ooh, ouch, oh dear,'

The scent of blood filled his nose and entire being even before she uttered a word. He step back, looking horrified, trying not to look, but not being able to look away. Elizabeth stood with her back against the bench, out of breath, flushed - pink and yellow as he was pale. She was holding her left hand at an odd angle, trying to keep it from dripping on her clothes. She'd put her hand straight on a stake knife resting on the Branagh kitchen sink. The Count was surprised that the carnal lust did not entirely leave his body when his eyes fell on the large cut in her palm. He could have ripped through that cut to the veins beneath, and snap her neck before she could even scream. His actions then, however surprised him.

'Here, let me,' he said, grabbing the paper towel she had been reaching for and ripping off a few sheets.

She looked up at him to apologise, and noticed a new expression on his face. Was it... guilt?

'I'm sorry, Mr Count... I don't even know you're first name...'

Ah, there it was.

'I just... I know you're so lonely up in the cast-'

He grabbed her shoulders then, and pulled her to his chest. 'You did not act out of pity, and neither do I.' He held her so close, perhaps to remind himself with that scent in the room that she was Elizabeth, his neighbour and his friend, and he would not drain her as he would a herd of cattle. Not yet.

Very gently, he staunched the flow of blood, holding the towel and wrist in one hand and her entire body in his other. She stared up at him fondly and he found the cause for a genuine smile. She'd very likely not been with a man (mortal or not) in years. Ever. He was good. Her head was nestled in the crook of his shoulder as he held her. At that moment, still feeling the warmth of her, Count Dracula saw her blood splatter across the bright yellow walls in his mind's eye, and he was revolted. And thirsty.

'Mr C-'

'Please, Elizabeth, do not speak.' He pressed his thumb into her hand - a little to hard, as she flinched - and watched the blood soak into the paper. The very sight of her pain and cheeks still flushed from pleasure spiked a mix of both in him. He closed his eyes and kissed her forehead. It was gentle, and somehow more passionate than the other way's he'd touched her. He still seemed to be bothered by the encounter. Elizabeth spoke, very quietly, to the vampire cradling her in her kitchen.

'Mr Count... I'm sorry. It was only mean't to be a bit of fun. Maybe we sh-'

'No!' She gave a start; maybe he was being a bit rash to use the voice. 'No... I want to see you again.' He stooped to begging. 'Please.' He was honestly afraid that she would say no, so his eyes began to glow. She was transfixed. 'I want you to see me again. Like this; like what we did.'

'Yes,' she said absently.

'And do not breathe a word of it.' He crushed her more tightly to his cold, pale body.

'Not a word.'


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Elizabeth folded the family laundry from the washing basket into neat piles on the lime green couch, as was her custom every Sunday afternoon. The amazing amount of washing came from the boys' camping trip. Ian and Paul had, of course, gone down to the local shopping centre for ice creams, magazines and chips, while Chloe was still at Jennie's. Graham would pick her up on his was home from getting groceries. It had taken her longer than usual, with the added volume and her bandaged hand. But what of Robin?

She had expected her youngest son to shoot up to the castle as soon as he set his swag down.

He had barely let her kiss him on the cheek, however, and since they had arrived home that morning, had spent the entire day in his room, listening to some awful, Icelandic death metal band. He was avoiding her, and she thought she knew why.

Folding the last of Graham's shirts (she had left that pile 'til last, perhaps subconsciously), Elizabeth approached Robin's door and knocked gently.

'Robin?'

'Go 'way,' he mumbled.

Elizabeth was quite affronted, and knocked more sharply over the music.

'Robin… I found the football registration form in your shorts… and its all right love.' Silence. She frowned. 'You're allowed to like football and vampires at the same time. Have you and Vlad grown apart? Did you have a fight?'

There was a pause, then the door clicked and opened. Robin glared at his mother from under his shock of black hair, a mixture of anger and incredulity spread across his face.

'Vlad? You think this is about Vlad? I haven't been near the castle and I went camping with Ian and Paul and Dad because I wanted to stay away from you and him, not Vlad! I actually liked camping, and I do like football, if it's all the same, but if I make it less… obvious, it might spare Vlad the… disgust!' He folded his arms indignantly, the way a child did when they needed to say what they've said, but guessed they may have gone too far.

Elizabeth felt a lump rise in her throat. If only he knew the half of it! She had to say something, as he was waiting nervously for her feedback on his outburst. But then, she thought, if she reprimanded immediately, Robin would know that she knew exactly what he meant and who he was talking about, which would show more of her guilty conscience than she would like. She cleared her throat.

'Who's "he", sweetheart?' She blinked, feigning innocence.

'Him! The C- Uh… Mr Count!' He frowned again. 'I saw you kiss him on the cheek. You mollycoddling him, it's disgusting! Almost as revolting as you and Dad!'

Elizabeth almost laughed in relief. Her smile caused Robin to fold his arms more tightly and huff, but she only smiled more widely. He hadn't made the connection between overfriendliness and flirtation – thank gosh, because she'd only just made it herself.

'Oh, Robin, you and your imagination! You know, I got a wee bit lost on my walk the other night, and Mr Count helped me find my way home.' She smiled reassuringly. 'I'd give you a peck on the cheek now and then, if you didn't jump ten feet and squirm around every time I tried.'

Robin stared at her disparagingly for a few more seconds, and then smiled.

'Sorry mum… So, you'll sign it then?'

Elizabeth blinked, a twinge of guilt plagued her nerves as her son had so easily been dissuaded, even apologising to her.

'Sign…?'

'The football registration form.' He pointed to the slip of paper clutched in his mother's hand. 'I just… I want to play, is all.'

She smiled, paying attention properly now.

'Does that mean you'll be ditching the cape and easing up on the Boris Karloff collection?'

He stared at her.

'Of course not! You know, I can like vampires and play sport at the same time… And it's not like there's much sunshine at this time of year to be out in anyway.' He scoffed. 'You know, it is possible to like more than one thing at a time.'

Elizabeth rifled through the stationary on Robin's desk for a pen to sign the form, finding a black pencil with a plastic Count Dracula topper. She smiled, as it seemed familiar.

'That's very true, love, very true.'

Vlad sighed, stepping back from the door and tip-toeing down the hallway before either of them could come out of Robin's room. He left the front door slightly ajar and stomped down the garden path. Well, he still knew what his Dad was up to, but he decided he would not tell Robin – the Dracula family was full of enough turmoil without spilling over into anyone else's lives. Unfortunately for Mrs Branagh, it seemed as though it already had.

Vlad kicked loose stones miserably as he slowly made his way back up to the castle. He was actually somewhat relieved that he hadn't seen Robin today. It was harder to play along when his Dad and Mrs Branagh were actually in the room, making googly eyes. He sighed. It must be pretty serious for Robin to notice something.

But he could be friends with Robin and the latter be none-the-wiser. It was possible to do more than one thing at a time.


End file.
